


after.

by aPaperCupCut



Category: Penumbra (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Mind Bending, Mind alteration, Philip Lives, Slow Pace, Slow Updates, Surreal, agender characters, as a warning ive only had therapy once in my life and only for a short time, bad therapy then good therapy, im too tired rn to tag more the earlier post of this bugged out :(, slice of life kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:12:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: In one dream, Philip lives mundanely as an almost shut in, in a nameless city. In another, he is trapped in a game, poked and prodded for answers he doesn't have.Philip lives, and he's not sure why.





	1. One, Two, Another Door

**Author's Note:**

> lol im super tired, but this started as "hey i never write slice of life, why dont i give it a go?" spoilers, i had an idea for a different fic, didnt have energy to write it and this, so thus, i fused it. that is also how another fic got written, lol. anyways, some warnings: i have only had therapy once. it was for something completely unrelated to what i experience now, and from what is shown in this fic. im basing my writing off of my assumptions and experiences. thus, what is shown here is not what is standard, and is completely fiction. just a warning, but tbh if anybodys got advice for writing abt therapy when one has barely experienced it, im totally all ears. the beginning has bad therapy, but it gets better and ill be doing research then, but, yeah. anyways im tired and my eyes are real fucked up rn so posting is Difficult, this is the second attempt.

The rain is a pattern of diamonds, falling down upon the city with a quiet sound. An autumn drizzle, and nothing more.

Philip shoulders his bag, and ignores the crowd pushing around him; pushy, pushy, even though it is an odd enough time that fewer people were about. They still cast him suspicious glances, looking down at him in his battered rain coat and dirty bag, looking down at him from their high chairs. They were put there by their fathers and mothers. He doesn't judge them for it, not like he once did.

He had stopped, to look up and _feel_ the droplets on his cheeks, but he moves along now. Too many, too many. The rush hour draws near.

It doesn't take long to reach the apartment, not even with the rain slowing his limbs with the chill in the air. He has long since grown used to the cold, that impetuous thing that thinks itself so very powerful. Philip wouldn't succumb to a little rain.

The doorman doesn't look up from his magazine. There is no one in the lodge; no one in the elevator. He stares at the dirty walls as he rises.

_Mundane. That's what life has always been. It's what it always will be._

The door opens with a click, and he shoves his heavy body forward. Philip collapses on the roughened sofa, and stares at nothing.

Nothing. Nothing.

It's all he does. Outside, the ring of police cars and the chatter of people and animals, but it doesn't touch him. He leaves the window open, as if asking for a robbery - but what does he have for others to steal away from him?

He has nothing. He's always had nothing.

A cushy job for several years is nothing. The money he has from his inheritance, from his savings - nothing. The documents he brought back - nothing. All of it is nothing. All of it was for nothing.

Childhood memories of poisoned loneliness, large boys shoving his head down as he struggles to walk with underfed limbs. The past is a feature that might as well not exist.

Philip blinks, realizing dully that his eyes are dry. When he turns on his side, to catch the time - an hour or so since he's come back to the apartment - his stomach turns with him. It rebels against him, and he sucks in a tight breath. Bile crawls up his throat, but he chokes it down. He hasn't eaten today; he forgot.

He wonders what Clarence would say. What Red would say. (What would Amabel say?) Probably nothing at all - what did it matter anyway? They weren't here.

Outside, the rain is pitter-pattering, a hail of diamonds on the roof.

 

* * *

 

“You'll have to face it at some point.”

The click of a pen against a notepad. The tick of the clock on the wall. These are the things he draws his eye to, slow and easy. He keeps his breathing steady, despite the tight feeling in his chest.

“Mr. Buchanan?”

He swerves his head, and doesn't look at the man. (That's not my name, he doesn't say.) Just off to the side - to the left, just over the man's ear. A stray brown lock of hair floats, and he finds himself counting the strands.

“Sir?”

Philip takes a deep breath, doing his best to keep the process silent. He nods.

He hates this.

“Alright, then. I advise you to listen closely.”

He bites his tongue. Notes the light coming in from the window, grey and delicate. The way it rests across the man's shoulders.

“What you went through was horrifying. Recovery is no easy task, especially from something that… _unearthly._ ” A pause. Philip fidgets, his hands fumbling against each other. “There is no shame in seeking medical assistance. You still refuse to move on, Mr. Buchanan. If you are not taking your medication--”

“I'm taking it.” It makes him lethargic. And yet, he takes it. If only for the respite it gives him from the agonizing, crawling pace of time. Lets him sleep, when nothing else will. “I won't take more. What I have is good enough.”

The man sighs. “You resist any efforts I make to help you. In regards to meds, you refuse to try other formulae - and I do know you take it. Just as I know we both know it is not helping you.”

He will not be cowed. Not by some shrink only doing this out of pity. Not by some asshole funded by people trying to keep him silent. They should know already that Philip won't do shit. Won't say shit. Because what is the point?

“Again and again, I try to get through to you by other means - through these weekly sessions, through a myriad of mechanisms tried and proven. And yet, you refuse to open up, to begin the process of recovery!”

He won't listen to this bullshit. Fuck this.

He stands up. Shoves shivering, numb fingers into his jean pockets, and turns around.

The man doesn't call after him. This was a better session than most, after all; he's skipped before, ignoring his court order, and he's left much sooner. He stayed for almost a half hour this time. No, the man won't push his luck.

The receptionist raises a hand to him, a silent farewell. Her smile is warm, but he can't smile back. He half waves goodbye, at least, and he hopes she knows he appreciates the small things she does every time he has to enter this despicable building.

The weather is cold and grey outside, the early morning lending a sense of emptiness that otherwise would be absent. He digs around in his pockets for some pocket change, knowing that he'd have to walk if he doesn't have the money. Thankfully, he does.

The subway station is quiet. Philip pays for his faire and boards, and is glad for the relative emptiness; he doesn't have to stand to avoid touching them. He takes a spot where he can see every passenger, where he can watch them tiredly reading or staring absently into space. He only lets his attention slip when they begin to move.

He phases everything out, an ache settling in the back of his teeth, right around his molars. Philip is so very tired. The world is a whirlpool of washed out colour, vibrations barely managing to tell him a cohesive story. He manages to get home.

_Home. What is a home, anyway? A place to rest his head, his feet? Or is it someplace warm, something you cut yourself from everyday in order to leave?_

There is a taste on his tongue. Mint, maybe. Philip's staring out the window, eyes dry. He's been sitting, knees pressed against the wall, looking out the window senselessly for several hours.

He exhales, closing his weak eyes to the vision of brown and grey buildings, brick and concrete and wood. His mouth is warm.

When he opens his eyes, touching a cold digit to his bottom lip, he finds red staining his sickly skin.


	2. Three, Four, Pick The Scar

Rough, pockmarked stone. Philip blinks dully, and feels cold liquid seep into the back of his neck. He fidgets, trembling hand running through his wet hair.

_Where am I?_

He roams with his eyes alone; he can't turn his head. The room is dark and light all at once; he expects it to be dark, yet bright white light illuminates the corners of the room when he begins to pay attention to it. The room itself is fairly empty; a shelf holding miscellaneous items is to his right, and a bizarre, unfamiliar medical device crouched beside his bed to his left. He follows the tube winding out of it, belatedly realizing it lines up into the junction of his elbow. He doesn't recognize the clothes he's wearing.

Philip’s heart begins to pound, but his breathing remains steady. He twists his gaze around, trying desperately to find a door, to find an exit - even if he can't move, can't sit up, he'll at least know that he can get out once they release him, _if they release him_ \- but finds only empty, white walls.

For several long, long moments, there is only the sound of his breathing, and the tug of his hands against his hair, against the unknown IV. Then, there's a click and a sudden rush of warm air - and there's an empty hole in the wall, he can see it right across from him, before it vanishes, closed up.

Footsteps. Philip closes his eyes, ice flooding his veins.

Then a hand - cold and dry - touches his cheek. It does not linger; its touches are clinical, even as it draws through his hair, feels along his clavicle. His heart is beating so strongly, he doesn't know how they don't hear it pushing blood in and out through the chambers.

“I know you're awake,” and they thumb his cheek again, before lightly tapping it. “Please do me the courtesy of opening your eyes, Mr. LaFresque.”

His eyes pop open, and he gasps, coughing, and his visions sputters and gasps with him. He tried to turn, but something grasps his arms and keeps him still.

The being leaning over him is masculine, square jaw lined with a light dusting of black hair, messy and bright eyed. They watch him with keen eyes, and he's reminded of an octopus, peering out of their own individual world with a thousand things swarming through their mind.

“Oh, good! You appear to be functioning just fine.” They withdraw, patting him on the cheek. He stiffens, and swallows loudly. “I'm sure you're very confused, Mr. LaFresque, but all will be made clear in due time.”

_That isn't my name._

The stranger backs up, and begins pressing buttons on the strange device, right out of Philip's view. Philip swirls his tongue in the inside of his mouth, the brief taste of mint flooding his senses. He inhales; holds the bitter air inside his chest, one, two, three seconds. Lets it go.

“Wh… Why…?” The sound is a husk of its former timber, and he nearly flinches, eyes watering, at the croak. The man looks at him, bright eyes ever so wide. “Where…”

And the man squeezes his arm, something shadowing his gaze before vanishing. “Don't worry, sir. Just hold in there.”

Time seems to warp, drawing out and speeding up, a cacophony of nothing. Philip tries, several times, to talk - _how did I get here? am I dead? where am I? who are you?_ \- but all that rises out of the ruin of his windpipe is a quiet, stuttered croak of half words and half breathes. He grows tired, and then simply watches the stranger move about.

They seem unfazed by his watching, barely sparing a glance in his direction. They hum to a tune Philip only just recalls, pressing buttons on the machine first and then pulling out a grey, slim device, completely unmarked on the back and emanating a dim glow from the front. The flickering of darkness and light continues, throwing the stranger's face into stark contrasts.

Eventually, the door opens once more, and Philip tears his eyes away to catch the hallway beyond just before it closes. It looks just as white and bleached as this room does, yet the flashing blackness does not reach it.

The feminine figure that steps through is tall, eyes hidden behind thick glasses that reflect the light. They approach with the click of high heels, and murmur quietly with the other, too far from Philip’s bedside to hear. The womanly stranger, after their discussion with their colleague, approaches Philip with no expression.

“Are you awake and aware, Mr. LaFresque?”

Philip blinks, just once, and huffs out impatiently. His skin crawls, even as his mind refuses to stop. To stop being so damn _slow._

“Alright. Then we can begin.”

The stranger nods to their comrade, who flips something on the machine. It whirrs, and Philip's vision begins to clear. The whiteness of the room burns him, and he squeezes his eye shut. His mouth hurts, an ache in his teeth - and he _knows_ that he won't be able to talk unless they want to hear. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does.

“I want to begin by introducing ourselves. I am Ms. Hanarera, and this is my colleague, Mx. Adolin.” She smiles, but it is a tight and bitter expression. “We retrieved you from one of our many Shelters, but this one was most peculiar. Hidden from ninety-eight percent of our databases, and breached by not only an alien influence, but also by a non-domestic. Two aliens, if you will.”

She leans close, and her glasses slide down her nose, just enough so that Philip can see her eyes - glowing with some kind of inner light, only barely extinguished by her dark irises. He quivers, as she comes close enough for the few dark ribbons of hair that have escaped her braid to linger on his face, before she withdraws.

“Now.” She turns to Adolin, a calm smile marring her neutral expression briefly. They nod, and another button is pressed; Philip considers falsifying a reaction, but he suddenly can't care to. “I have quite a few questions for you, Mr. LaFresque.”


End file.
